


Like Running Through Water

by seperis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-10
Updated: 2005-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as McKay was concerned, John was a really nifty remote control for Ancient toys. It would have been offensive if John had tried to be anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Running Through Water

**Author's Note:**

> Chopchica beta'ed, CJ preread and title suggested, and the glowy thing that's not a disco ball but could be? Totally chopchica's.

**That Time, Back Then**

After John escapes McKay's lab, using the process of stealthily waiting until McKay has passed out from exhaustion, he gets an email requesting his presence in General O'Neill's office, twenty-two hours before estimated time of departure.

It's not a lab. John pretty much is good with anything at this point that's not a lab.

There, John is given a.) whiskey, b.) ten boxes of files, c.) a box of disks, and d.) a huge, amused smile.

"Whiskey first," O'Neil says as John flips open the first file, greeted with an image of something multi-tentacled that seems to be *playing chess* with a blonde woman in uniform.

"Oh."

He drinks the whiskey in a gulp and wishes for more.

O'Neil says, this all might seem kind of strange. These, he says, are some mission reports (file box) from the SGC that involve the Ancients. There are more being sent with the databases, but you strike me as a reading-in-bed type of guy.

These, he says, and this time the discs, carefully anonymous by a manufacturer that John's never heard of, are *my* files. Password is alcatraz01. You'll get it later.

John nods, because the alcohol's cushioned the shock of it all.

Another? O'Neill says, as smug as McKay could ever pull off.

John thinks talking about aliens deserves a second glass. He says yes.

* * *

"So, how's all the testing going?" O'Neil makes a little circle in the air with one finger, raising an eyebrow, like he completely understands that John is woken up at all hours by random personnel who are regularly terrorized by Dr. McKay into hunting him down like a dog and dragging him into a lab to *touch something*.

And that Dr. McKay--

"How does he find me?" The last time, John had gone hiking, just to see what would happen. Fifteen minutes in, when John had made the mistake of stopping to admire the scenery (snow, snow, more snow, look, more snow! John liked snow), two parka-clad bodies had come abruptly into view. John had watched them approach with a sense of inevitability, recognizing one as the pretty Asian lab tech he'd met the first day, the other a young, sour-faced Marine who'd looked at him with resigned determination.

"Major Sheppard!" the lab tech had said, stumbling in heavy boots she obviously wasn't used to wearing, looked exhausted and freezing and like she might have been crying recently, "Major Sheppard, Dr. McKay requests your presence immediately."

What he'd actually said to her was (Marine quoted), "If his ass isn't in that chair in thirty minutes, I will make you wish you were dead."

What he'd then told the Marine was, "Find him, or I will personally make sure you never, ever get laid again by anyone on this base."

John saw the rope swinging meaningfully from the Marine's belt. He'd gone back.

He'd also systematically checked his clothes, his shoes, and his equipment for tracking devices. Later, in the shower, he'd performed a quick body scan for new and unexplained scars.

O'Neil looks a little sheepish. "Yeah, that."

"Is he having me *watched*?"

O'Neil shifts, looking almost uncomfortable. "Well. McKay can be a little--"

"Psychotic?"

"Intense."

"Scary."

O'Neil nods, like John just nailed the issue to his satisfaction. "Yeah, that too. McKay's our foremost expert on gate technology. This opportunity--"

"I get it." He's fondled more pieces of meaningless machinery than he can count; *cool*, because one, they *light up* and sometimes hum in his hand, or fly around the room, or once, released some kind of gas that had led to an unfortunate stay in isolation until they found out it was the equivalent of Ancient laughing gas. And two, every time--*every time*--McKay's teeth set together in a grim, displeased line, like he's terribly disgusted that *John* can make it all work, which really is a lot of fun and almost makes the entire experience worth it.

Besides being McKay's weird version of an on/off switch, he really hasn't had a lot to do here.

John nods and takes the third whiskey. He doesn't drink much, so he holds it carefully, while O'Neill watches him with curious eyes.

"Do you?"

* * *

"Are you brain damaged?"

That's how John had woken up one horrific morning. Things he expected when he woke up.

1.) actual morning.  
2.) privacy.  
3.) coffee.

His life had never been that easy.

John realized he was holding a gun on a tired looking man in a lab coat, and he almost lowered it, before he recognized McKay.

"How did you--"

"Shut up." Without even blinking, McKay pushed the gun aside. John was too surprised to stop him. "I'm not here to listen to you babble. Are you crazy, or have you been in some kind of brain-traumatizing accident? We have doctors. They can *fix you*. Or at least, get you back to normal, though that look of blank incomprehension may *be* normal, I have no idea. I'm speaking English, have you forgotten your native tongue? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He managed that in one breath. John blinked. "What?"

McKay reached out and dragged John's blankets back, and John found himself at two o'clock in the morning waging a war for sheets. There was no way this could be normal. Also, he wasn't winning.

The sheets end up in a sad little pile at the foot of the bed. "Get up and tell Dr. Weir you are going. Now."

John stared. "You have got to be kidding me."

But McKay was already tossing him clothes from the closet and when had John lost control of the situation? Hell, when had he ever had control of it in the first place? "What are you doing?"

"Getting you dressed. Not literally, of course, unless the brain damage is actual, in which case, possibly. Don't worry, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

The scary part was, John believed him. "I'm not going anywhere. It's the middle of the fucking *night*."

McKay hesitated, a boot in one hand, eyes a little glassy. "Huh. Yeah, so it is." John recognized the kind of exhaustion that came with that level of mania, and it occurred to him at that point, holding his gun at all was ridiculous. Putting it back on the bedside table, he watched McKay turn around, leaning into the wall, blue eyes glazed. "I'd probably care if I'd slept more. But I haven't been sleeping. Do you know why?"

John kept his mouth shut.

"I haven't been sleeping because I'm testing Ancient technology with the most incompetent and reluctant group of morons ever to inhabit the same space." He waved the boot around in a slow circle, then tossed it at the bed. John watched it slowly tumble to the floor like a slow-motion video. "The ones with the gene sit there and stare at it and sometimes, they can make it work, but mostly, they can't, they don't want to, they don't like it, they don't know it, they're afraid of it, they're afraid of themselves. Before you, I had Carson and he hated every second of it. But you--"

John swallowed. "There's got to be other people."

"You think we haven't *looked*? It's--Jesus. We've looked and looked, the SGC searched for *years*, and how the hell you weren't screened I'll never know, but you weren't. We thought, well, this was all we've have left from the Ancients. Evolution fucked us over. I was okay with that. I could live with that. And then you came.

"You came, and you sat down, and in five minutes, you'd told us more than we'd learned in years, and now you think you can walk the fuck *out*? I don't *think* so, Major."

The blue eyes sharpened. "I've waited my whole life for this. I waited for it before I knew what it was. This is everything. You work out any weird trauma you have on your own time, and you know, we have a great psychiatrist coming along, and you can go tell her all about bad touching or post-traumatic stress disorder or how you mutilated kittens in your misspent youth, and have all the issues you want, but you're going to have them *there*, because there is no way in hell that you're staying behind."

John opened his mouth, words hovering on the tip of his tongue--why should I care, what the *fuck* does this have to do with what I want, and who the hell are you to tell me what I have to do? He didn't though, because McKay was standing right there, exhausted and unshaven and the big hands were almost shaking, anger or just plain exhaustion John couldn't tell, and he could say it, but it'd be stupid, and John had never been stupid.

McKay had said, it was everything, and John understood that, the need and want that could drive you, that took you over and stole sleep and rationality, that meant more than anything and anyone else ever could, ever would. You didn't argue with it, reason with it, you could fight it, but in the end, you'd lose. Sometimes, you even lost yourself.

John swung his legs out of bed and leaned back, holding McKay's gaze. "Has it occured to you that I like it here? That I love what I do?"

McKay's eyes narrowed. "Flying in circles in the south pole? I can see the attraction. Or not at all, really."

John tilted his head, watching McKay push off the closet, already marshaling other arguments, or possibly, and John wouldn't even be surprised, getting ready to pop out a needle and *drug* John into submission. "Flying."

McKay stopped, and John watched the click, like a puzzle piece falling into place. Recognition and understanding and strangely, amusement.

"Major," McKay said, slowly, and he bent down, picking up the second boot, dropping it on the foot of bed, dropping down right beside it. McKay smelled like coffee and antiseptic and too much time in a lab, too close, and he closed a hand over John's wrist like a promise, squeezing hard enough to rub bone against bone. "We're going to *Atlantis*. Through a wormhole. That the Ancients created. You have no idea, do you? You want to fly? I'll get you a *spaceship*."

* * *

John studies O'Neill and takes the third shot. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

The fourth shot goes down easily, and by that time, John is actually considering this in light of a really strange hallucination brought about by South Pole insanity. It's possible. It's *reasonable*.

As reasonable as three hours of sleep a night and being woken up drooling on McKay's lab table by a prodding finger in his shoulder, telling him he can rest when he's dead, so get up and *touch this*. Touch this, touch that, think at it really, really hard, whatever the hell *that* meant, but it works, so John doesn't complain about the terms. No. No hallucination would have someone like McKay, relentlessly vivid, sharp as a hyperfocused lens, loud, taking up massive amounts of space and air and *feeling*. McKay's an interactive experience, like getting really high and then wandering around in the mall the day after Thanksgiving; it's almost impossible to believe he's a single person.

John smiles, focusing on O'Neill. "This heart to heart has been great, sir. I really feel like part of the team now."

O'Neill snorts softly. "Huh. It's been a while, hasn't it, Sheppard?"

It's deliberate shaft, hitting full center. John knows it, feels it hit, and doesn't give it away. "Yes, it has. Sir."

John's been alone a while. He's learned to like it.

* * *

"Don't be *stupid*."

John was tempted, just a little, to really hit McKay's buttons, just once, just press down *hard* and see what happened, just for the fun of it. But McKay was *easy*, and John had never been around someone who wanted so little. McKay wanted him *here*, wanted him conscious, wanted him to say yes, it works, or no, it doesn't. As far as vaguely-resembling interpersonal relationships went, this was probably the most comfortable he'd ever had.

People at a few removes were always easier to deal with, and McKay was a familiar stranger who didn't want anything that John couldn't offer. His only expectation, and he made it clear, was that John be in the lab when he wanted him and at the wormhole when they were ready to depart. Fail at either of these two, and McKay would find new and creative ways to destroy him. John believed that.

As far as McKay was concerned, John was a really nifty remote control for Ancient toys. It would have been offensive if John had tried to be anything else.

"Sometimes," McKay broke in, looking at John over something like a wrench, but with tiny movable teeth-looking things that seemed ominously close to chewing off his fingers, "I wonder if you have any independent thought whatsoever."

John bit down and tried not to be tempted. Do not tease the crazy scientist. It was his own fault, really, with the entire hiking thing. "No," he deadpanned with his most blank expression. "They broke me of that in basic training."

McKay nodded, like it made sense. "Figures. It's always the pretty ones." McKay looked a little thoughtful, expression softening toward gentle annoyance. Warm and fuzzy, McKay style. "Of course, there are exceptions."

Yes, John thought with a grin, biting down again and not mentioning Carter's name, though he wanted to, badly, just to see McKay flinch. Also, pretty. Hmm. "This going to take long?" Because six straight hours, and he might be be losing skin from his fingers from all the touching, rubbing, stroking, and other words that he'd once associated with sex and never, ever will again. There was a moment of absolute appalled horror where John wondered if he'd spend the rest of his life associating good touch with warm, humming metal that spoke in a whisper. He pulled away every time he felt it, and he didn't think McKay had noticed yet, but while McKay was relentlessly self-centered, he was also the single smartest person John had ever met. He'd notice, eventually.

I get why they were afraid of that, he would tell McKay. I get why they won't do this for you. Last night, fifteen straight hours locked in McKay's lab, cataloguing more objects, and John had dreamed in whispered voices that spoke in a language he almost understood, fingers feeling smooth warm metal that hummed when he touched, and he'd woken up hard and sweating and *wanting*, no idea what. If he thought about it seriously, he'd run out of here and never come back, no matter how many Marines and McKays came after him.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting prime lounging time?" McKay's voice was habitually sharp, but the McKay equivalent of distracted, so John felt comfortable letting himself smile. "I know with that sheer lack of anything *else* to do--"

John waved it off. "Yes, I know, moron, no one is as important as I am, oh the pain of my life doing all the work and rewarded with nothing but ingratitude. Repetition times*three*, by the way. Fun."

For a second, John thought he saw McKay's mouth quirk, but then it was gone, hidden under an insane pile of papers before McKay emerged with, surprise, surprise, *another* Ancient device. He placed it on the lab table between them, fixing John with a look just shy of an order.

John blinked, because for a second, it was like seeing McKay for the first time. He hadn't shaved for two days, and he might have had a chat with a shower recently, but not a long one. Black smudges were vivid beneath the blue eyes, but the habitually tight mouth was almost relaxed. One finger was bandaged from a hangnail (not kidding), but there were old acid burns on his first two fingers and both palms, the fading scar of an electric burn on his forearm beneath his lab coat, almost invisible to the naked eye.

When John didn't move fast enough, McKay reached across the table and closed big fingers over his wrist, jerking his hand into position over the globe. It was almost like a challenge, and John didn't fight it.

Didn't flinch at the unexpected touch, and that surprised him. He thought it might have surprised McKay, too.

"Shut up and touch this." And McKay almost smiled.

John didn't like that it made him want to smile back.

* * *

O'Neill wants to say things that, technically, are out of line, even from a General to a Major. John can see them forming behind the sharp eyes, about how no man is an island and maybe something about being a team player, or possibly something less clichéd but extremely motivating. John just looks at him, because he's going through the Stargate in a few hours with a group of strangers to a distant galaxy, and really, there's nothing that can be said here that could possibly match that. One glance from a distance at Sumner was enough to tell him his time on Atlantis, outside of McKay's godforsaken lab, will not be fun.

And he's categorizing McKay's lab as fun, now. Dear God.

So he lets O'Neill keep looking, letting the alcohol soothe away the edges of discomfort, because he could honestly give less than a shit what this man thinks of him or what he has to say. Below that, though, is the vague uncertainty that maybe he *should*. That this moment, this office, this talk, is important, that he should be here and aware for it.

"I have this friend," O'Neill says, and his mouth quirks up on one side, eyes softening and growing distant. "Workaholic. Used to shut himself up with his books and his computer for days at a time between missions. I'd drag him out and make him see sunlight and buy him food that didn't come from the microwave and he'd be pissed for *hours*, because I'd interrupted when he'd been *this close* to figuring out the meaning of life. Or an obscure Ancient dialect." Jack looks thoughtful, taking a slow drink. "Depending on what day of the week it was."

John tries to look like he knows where this was going.

"He bitched and moaned, but he never stopped me, and he could have. He didn't." O'Neill smiles, but it isn't directed at John. "I've read your file."

Really, there's nothing like surreal alcohol-hazed conversation. It'd probably make far more sense if O'Neill was as drunk as John is.

"You're very good. A hell of a lot better than I expected." From reports, he doesn't say, but he doesn't need to. John waits. "And I'd expect a great deal from a man who can fly like you do."

John forces himself to nod, mouth tight. There's nothing new O'Neill can say that he hasn't heard before.

"What's strange is, what I read isn't anything like the man I met." O'Neill pauses, looking at his empty glass like it's a foreign object. "And the man I read about is the one I want to send to Atlantis, Sheppard."

That? Is new. "Sir?" The whisky might have been a bad idea--John isn't following this conversation at all.

"When you get there, it's going to be--not what you're used to." And damned if the man doesn't grin, leaning back in his chair. "You're military, Sheppard, but you're going to have to be more than that. We don't need more military on this mission."

John tries to figure out what to say to that. "Sir?"

O'Neill sighs, leaning forward to rub his forehead.

"This is why I don't do speeches." Reaching for the decanter, he pours another drink and stares at it for a few seconds, then up at John. "You've had days to learn what we spend years training men to understand. Dr. Weir wants you there because you can operate the technology, and privately, I think she likes your ass. I want you there because if things go wrong--and they will--I think you can handle it." O'Neill finishes the glass and pours another. "And when they don't go wrong? You'll know what to do then, too."

John blinks. Slowly. "I don't understand."

With an unexpected grin, O'Neill fills his glass. "Trust me, Major. When it happens, you will."

* * *

Six hours before departure, John sits alone, staring at the chair. Everything they'd wanted to take had been packed, but this, apparently, isn't going with them. He isn't sure why.

It's quiet, though, and no one comes in or out, excitement having reached that fever pitch that only groups can manage, until John couldn't stand it a second longer and had to get away, anywhere, everywhere--

(--though he didn't make the mistake of actually leaving the base; that way lies McKay's magical sense of John-getting-away and so not what he's looking for right now).

The chair looks at him, and he looks back. Just a freaky metal chair with some resemblance to what you'd find at the local dentist, but surprise! A stamp with Made in the Pegasus Galaxy in blue light that betrays itself at John's first touch. "You know, I was okay here. I liked it here. I was--" Happy here. He can't lie to himself that convincingly. "It was okay. I was okay."

Dr. Weir is nice enough and has made frightening amounts of effort to see that he's on board with the project (maybe she did check out his ass, but he couldn't be sure). Dr. Beckett was chatty during his physical, probably because he'd been replaced as McKay's lab rat. And on base, he was the face most of them didn't know, so of course, they knew *exactly who he was*, and John has spent too much time away to like that. He's the new guy with the gene that hadn't know about intergalactic travel, aliens, and, if O'Neill's discs were accurate, a few averted apocalypses.

A secret history of wars that John's never heard of, and he's learned it in days, from files, from film and discs, from Dr. Weir and Colonel O'Neill, and from the faces of those he's met. He doesn't, can't believe it.

Standing up, John walks to the chair, then runs a slow finger over the panel, bathing himself in blue light, the soft hum of something that feels living and isn't, that feels him and welcomes him like it's known him forever.

He can believe it now, though, in this room, with this touch.

Taking his hand away, the connection fades into background noise and finally silence. For a second, he misses it, and that scares him more than anything else has.

He can feel McKay before he could see him, hovering at the edge of his consciousness. McKay had supervised the packing of this room, yelling the entire time about damaged equipment and irreplaceable value and pretty much making everyone in this galaxy glad he was going to another one, far, far away. He makes John wish that he'd never weakened and said yes. He makes John wish he'd never joined the Air Force.

McKay is a presence that transcends sound, though, and John doesn't need to hear him to feel his silent observation. It should be creepier, but exposure does things like make McKay feel almost normal, and John leaves him to watch, circling the chair.

"It's getting loud out there," McKay says, and of all things, he sounds *uncomfortable*, like it might have occurred to him that he's intruding. That? Is weird. Enough for John to look at him, a bulky presence against the doorway, nothing but shadow backed by clean, cool metal. The room's empty now, hollowed out from the excitement and preparation, everything leeched away to the people in those other rooms, frantically triple-checking everything for the thousandth time and loving every second.

"What if I can't do what you think I can?"

McKay takes the space between them like he does everything else--forward, accepting no prisoners, and not really caring what's in his way, because at the end, he knows it will buckle, that nothing and no one matches his will. John's never met anyone like him.

"That's not the question." He stares at the chair, too, reaching out with one hand to touch the high metal back, then drawing away before contact. "I could hate you, you know."

John turns his head, just enough to catch the flow of expression--hiding nothing, never seeing the need to, not bothering because who the hell is worth the effort to hide from? The bitterness is deep, and so is the anger and excitement and a thousand other emotions, all curled up and categorized and accepted.

Something McKay wants that no one can give him. "If I could--"

McKay cuts off that bit of stupidity with a gesture, sharp and final. "Shut up. Sit down."

John blinks, then nodded jerkily. McKay never asks him for anything he can't give easily, and this is something that might not be easy, but he can give it. Circling around, John sits down, eyes closing at the connection, his mind ready for it this time, for the shock of recognition and the instinctive pull away that the chair fights and wins, almost too easily. Beneath him is all humming potential and above him is the entire world, and he hovers somewhere between.

Warm, hard hands cover his on the palmrests, and John's eyes jerk open, ground into the world so sharply it almost hurts.

"Tell me."

But he has, John has, for hours and endless hours, this does this and that does *that* and hell if I know what *this* does, but damn it's tempting, sometimes, just to fuck with McKay after too many hours and not nearly enough sleep. John opens his mouth, then shut it tight, framing words to build a concept. "Like something I'd forgotten that I needed."

McKay nods once, sharply, eyes shadowed, mouth a jagged, unhappy line. "More."

John licks his lips. There aren't. Words. "Like waiting." God. "Like--" Closing a door. Opening a window. The smell of a storm in summer, the shock of a snowstorm from a clear sky. No. "Like everything's ready."

The pressure pushes his palms harder into the seat, and McKay is too close, almost straddling his lap. John can feel the gaze even better than he can see it, ruthless and uncompromising and focused. "More."

"Something to do. Wanting to do it, do anything. Years with nothing at all, no one who touched, who understood, then--" Here, then now, John isn't sure what he's saying anymore. "Then there were some, and not enough, and then there was *this*, when it--" When I--

McKay's eyes fix on his, demanding answers that John can't help but give. "Then there is now."

The pressure eases, enough for John to breathe between them, find a place that neither this chair or McKay can touch.

McKay's voice is low, rough. "That's how I know. The question is, do *you* know?"

John wants to say, no. It scares him, it pushes at him, it touches places in him that shouldn't be breached, it wants things he doesn't want to give. It twists and pulls and feels like a familiar stranger he's forgotten and shouldn't have. John wants to say no, but he'd be lying, and they both know it.

"You can. And you will." McKay's smile is bitter and angry and excited and proprietary, too. John wonders if between the two of them, this technology and this man, there will be anything left of him. "We're going to light up a world, Major."

* * *

**This Time**

"Get *back* here, Colonel!"

John forces himself not to turn around, because there's no way in hell he'll be able to stop laughing.

"I'm on a mission. For food. The kind that doesn't come wrapped in foil."

Behind him, John can hear rapid footsteps, a stumble, a curse, and John, who knows his Rodney, sends a mental command back to the door, just in time for it to slam shut in Rodney's extremely pissed face.

Oh, he'll pay for that, but damned if it isn't fun.

Also, he should be moving faster. Really, really much faster.

Down this hall, skip the mess because Rodney will go there first, his quarters, no way in hell, God knows what Rodney will do when he catches up. Hide out with Teyla, which will lead to the kind of embarrassment he could live without, gym, too many people and Rodney *likes* an audience. They both know the city too well. This could be interesting.

He passes two Marines and that Asian lab tech, and tries to look casual and not like he's running for his life, but the grin must give him away, because they look at him like he's crazy. When they see Rodney, which should be when he gets the lock disengaged--thirty-five seconds, tops--they'll know for sure.

The radio cackles to life. "You are a walking dead man. Colonel."

John turns down a less deserted hallway. "I bet you say that to all your favorite officers. How's that lock, by the way."

"Dead and *buried*. Did I mention the buried part?" There's a sparkle of that sounds electric and burning. Rodney grunts something. It never ceases to amaze John that the same man who complains about a *bruise* will never notice near-electrocution.

But he should check. "You okay, McKay?" To be safe, John turns down another hall before pausing to listen.

"No thanks to *you*." A sizzling sound, then the unmistakable grunt of triumph. John checks his watch. Perfect timing. "They'll never find your body."

"Sure they will." John checks his location. Explored, but unused. Good enough. Sixty feet, and he gets another corner. "You know, McKay--"

"What are you doing, playing hide and seek?" He's made it to John's quarters, from the sound. Deeply, deeply pissed. So far so good.

John closes his eyes. "What do you think?"

* * *

He's played this before, with higher stakes, different motivation. John closes his eyes and lets the city open up around him like a flower, whispers just below the edges of his consciousness.

That way.

He goes

If Rodney uses the computers, this will be a very, very short game, but John thinks he's learned enough to make it just a little harder.

* * *

McKay spent their first few weeks in some realm bouncing between excited and pissed as hell.

"They make us look like--" And those hands, quicksilver fast, John never got enough of watching them; movement was, for McKay, half the message. Sometimes, John thought he could tell everything McKay wanted to say just watching him move. "Like *Neanderthals*."

John, who'd made the mistake of checking in on the civilians before bed, was trapped in a corner, too far from the door to casually make his way out without being spotted. The sane people had gone to bed. Of course, no one would ever mistake McKay for someone sane.

"You know, I'd better--" John slid out a foot toward the door.

"Exploration alone will take years! Decades!" McKay turned in a circle, arms spread to indicate the entire city, almost *gloating*. John wished a little wistfully, that undiluted McKay exposure hadn't made that almost cute. "What we'll discover--the sheer *scope*--"

"I've heard this speech." Another foot.

"And you really don't appreciate it." Grounded, McKay gave him an annoyed look. "You know, by now, I thought the sheer magnitude of what we're doing would have sunk in. I'm sorry. Did you want some nice space bimbos to make it more interesting?"

John coughed on a laugh. "Yes, that's why I came. Not because you held me prisoner in your lab. Because I wanted to get an intergalactic lay." Though come to think, that would definitely be interesting. "Am I trapped here for a reason?"

McKay waved him toward the door. "Of course not, Major. I wouldn't expect you to understand." And like that, John felt the attention turn off, as easily and sharply as John could turn off the lights with a thought.

McKay did that sort of thing a lot. John stopped for a second, watching McKay go to his laptop, probably completely forgetting John was there.

Going to the door, John thought it open, just to annoy McKay, but he was already deeply involved in whatever was on his screen. "And. Eleven years, six months, thirteen days, and five hours." John stopped, watching the long back straighten. "Roughly."

For a second, John wasn't sure McKay would fall for it. But he did, because of all the things he'd learned about Rodney McKay, his biggest button was that there could be something out there he didn't know.

"Excuse me?"

"That's how long it will take us to explore it." John paused, adding maliciously. "If your calculations on area were accurate. Night."

He closed the door with a thought--that would never, ever stop being cool--but he let himself look back once, just to see.

McKay was staring at him with narrowed, thoughtful eyes, and John saw him stand up just before the door shut between them.

* * *

The biggest problem with using computer location is that it isn't three dimensional--and John's heard Rodney's exasperation on this subject before. He suspects the problem is they don't know how to read the data, but Rodney wouldn't admit that without a gun to his head, so.

Crouching, John watches Rodney walk under the catwalk, and he's learned a lot about how to search. Moving almost as quietly as John could--nothing really replaces life or death for training on how to be quiet, but Rodney does his damndest--carefully watching. John ducks back and holds his breath as Rodney looks up, knowing the angle gives him about an inch on either side of clearance, but not more than that.

Rodney's quiet, and he's careful, methodical with a handheld lifesigns monitor, turning a slow circle as John drops to a crawl, making his slow way down the catwalk, listening to Rodney circle beneath him, trying to make sense of two dimensions of area in a three dimensional room.

"Sheppard?"

John's already in the next room when Rodney figures out his mistake.

Maybe this will take longer than he thought.

* * *

"Okay, this is *cool*." John looked over the collection in front of them. McKay's artificial gene made his presence redundant, but when it was something especially weird, he was still expected to report, and the habit had been established far too early for John to bother breaking it now.

And really. Cool.

"We don't even know what they do." McKay's voice behind him was low with repressed excitement. Any second, he'll explode--McKay wasn't one to hide his feelings, and he'd been mainlining coffee since five am.

"It looks like a game, doesn't it?" Tiny things like small, brightly colored rocks, but they glittered oddly, catching light in unexpected, geometrically inappropriate ways. John tried not to look at them directly.

"Or possibly a collection of small, easily concealed bombs."

Way too much coffee. McKay usually didn't hit worse case scenario this fast. John reached for one, then hesitated. "Besides sudden, painful death, any theories on what they are?"

"Actually, yes." And Rodney's arm snaked around John, picking up one. The glitter exploded in brilliance, and John couldn't make himself look away. The room was alive with color--blue-green-purple, like a technicolored disco ball--and John almost thought he could hear music, something piped and old, light and sharp. All the edges of the room were pointed and focused, and John thought he could hear voices from across the city.

Cool. Very, very cool.

John tried not to blink, failed, and became abruptly aware of the fact that Rodney was just behind him, close enough to not quite touch, warm enough to not quite feel, the sleeve of his jacket brushing John's bare arm, every thread scraping like sandpaper.

Warm breath against his ear. "You try."

John turned his head, breath catching at Rodney's eyes so close, bluer than anything found in nature. He felt something drop into his palm, and all that color, and more not-quite-music, and John said, absolutely no idea why, voice breathless and too high,

"So, the Ancient equivalent of an acid trip?"

Rodney grinned. Warm, rough fingers brushed his palm, a quick stroke of two fingers before pulling the stone away, and John felt it like a hand sliding up his bare back. "You really have to wonder, don't you?"

John blinked himself back into the mundane lab, plain overheads, long white tables, more computers than any one person could possibly need, and Rodney, no longer too close and too personal, but still watching. The stones were just too-pretty, too-glittery stones, but John could still feel that touch.

"I better get back," he heard himself say, and he even *sounded* drugged. McKay's head tilted, then he turned away, waving a hand at the door in dismissal.

"You do that."

* * *

O'Neill had said, 'more', but he couldn't have really meant, you will be a very bad diplomat, and a weirdly unenthusiastic leader, and sometimes, you'll deal with crazy people, and sometimes, they won't even be *your* people.

Sometimes, you'll wake up after making terrible decisions and go back to sleep and sometimes, you won't. Sometimes, you'll be a pilot and sometimes, you'll be a soldier, and sometimes, you'll be an explorer, but sometimes, you'll just be the guy who can make the lights come on.

And sometimes, you won't be any of those things, and John wishes O'Neill had told him that part, just said it straight out. He's been alone too long, John realizes with a start, instincts listening for Rodney, the rest of him barely in this room at all. He's been here for a year, but he'd been alone too long before that. He'd forgotten how to be anything else.

The lights stay off--John thinks *off* at every room that looks like it might want to say hi, *off, off, off*, because Rodney's doing just fine on his own and doesn't need the city to help him any more than it already does. John thinks, *I'm hiding*, at it, but he can't be sure that kind of command will be understood. The Ancients, so far, haven't given the impression they had a sense of humor.

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can almost feel him, Rodney, who doesn't stalk well but makes up for it in sheer, dogged determination. If genius was, in fact, ninety-nine percent perspiration, Rodney had earned that title fairly.

His radio crackles to life. "What did you just do?"

"What?"

"Oh, good, you're alive. Because the life signs indicator just gave the impression you were *dead*."

John leans against a wall, grinning. The Ancients were much cooler than he'd thought. "Wow."

Rodney's voice is reluctant, like he's fighting his instincts. "I'm almost impressed." Translated, wow, you totally put my ass on the floor with *that* one. This could lead to scary amounts of research, and time spent on a stool in Rodney's lab when he could be doing pretty much *anything* else, and yes, John is already filing this away as *tactical advantage*, but still. "How much longer are you going to keep this up?"

Tongue in cheek, John stands back up and glances down a dark hallway before sliding through the first of several adjoining rooms. "Until you go away. Really, Rodney, I was getting *claustrophobic* in there. You have your own Ancient gene. Play with it. Leave mine alone."

Rodney snorts. "You know, sometimes you fool me into thinking that you occasionally engage in *rational thought*. This isn't one of those times. I have better things to do than waste my time running after you."

He's closer. He sounds too smug.

"But you still do it. Right now, even."

The radio falls silent. John almost cheats and checks his own lifesigns indicator, but they've both chosen their ground and their weapons, and adding a new one in wouldn't be sporting. John plays fair; he always has.

Rodney, doesn't, though.

"It'd be easier," Rodney says, and John stops short at the reluctant admission in his voice, like this is something he'd pretty much rather be disemboweled than say, "if you didn't make me want to."

* * *

They didn't fight like normal people fought. John didn't carry grudges and Rodney always forgot he was supposed to hold one until it was too late and well, no point in going cold and mean in the middle of team night. Especially when John was the one holding the popcorn hostage.

John found that funnier more often than not.

"Major!"

John almost sighed but didn't. Rodney acted like every planet was after his ass for ritual sacrifice, and the thing was, at this point, it was habit, really, like a stylized Japanese play. John did the intrepid/explorer/leader bit, and rather well if he said so himself, Teyla was silent strength, Ford boundless youthful optimism, and Rodney the voice of doom.

Comforting, even, that life could get to a point where you could turn around and predict the next five words out of your teammate's mouth, reliably sure that they will involve death, x-rays from space, evil aliens, allergens run amok, or a sad lack of convenient bathrooms.

Though John would agree with the bathroom thing. They were an awful long way from the puddlejumper.

But Rodney just skidded to an awkward stop, leaning over briefly in a showy catching of breath, probably to make John feel guilty for wandering off without him. It would have worked, but Rodney used that same expression when someone took the last piece of carrot cake in the mess, so-- "Yes?"

"Caves." And straightening, Rodney grinned, perfectly content. "I mean, if you want to take a nice walk around the valley, study the flora, you do that, but. Caves. Carvings. And?" He waved the indictator meaningfully. "Energy signals."

Beautiful wildlife. Nice view. Blue skies. Not nearly as interesting. "Okay, show me."

The cave wasn't far, and John wondered if Rodney had found it by falling into it. An easy jump down of less than two yards, with Rodney's resentful glare following him as he landed on his feet. Magnaminously, John took a step back and watched Rodney awkwardly lower himself down, moving quickly as Rodney lost his footing, catching him on the fall down.

Rodney was just as big as he looked, and heavy to boot. John braced himself and still stumbled a little, but luckily, they remained upright, though Rodney ended up leaning into the edge of the hole, dusty and irritated, fingers closed tight over his shoulders. There were going to be bruises, later. "I could have *fallen*."

John snickered into the annoyed blue eyes. "But you didn't." Theatrically, he made a show of dusting off Rodney's vest, grinning wider at the way he rolled his eyes.

"Your rescues leave a lot to be desired." Rodney examined one dust-covered arm for abrasions, and John snickered and tried to step back. Rodney's fingers unaccoutably tightened. Yes, bruises, definitely.

"Let go?"

Rodney tore his attention away from the red scrape from upper arm to elbow. No blood, just ugly, and probably stung. John almost mentioned that Rodney'd live through the horror, but he had that irritated look of curiosity again, like an experiment that was living up to all expectations except the part where it actually worked.

"Rodney?"

The long fingers didn't loosen, and John stood still, trying to work out the conflicting signals of move, stay, ask, don't *ever* ask, this was Rodney, and he'd give an answer whether John was ready or not.

And for a second, John thought Rodney might say something anyway. At the most ridiculous time, in a freaking *hole in the ground*, dusty and in search of a ZPM, so really, what the hell?

Rodney was, of course, someone who never let something like circumstances, bizarre or not, get in the way of observations. "Major--"

John jerked away, and it was overkill, but he could still feel Rodney's fingers in his shoulder even after he was leaning into the cave entrance. Rodney's eyes narrowed dangerously. John pointed at the energy detector. "You said power. Where?" He sounded breathless, like he'd run ten miles in full gear.

Rodney watched him for a second, then nodded sharply.

"All right." Like he was giving up something, and not happy to do so. Rodney liked losing less than most people. There were reasons that Rodney never, ever challenged him at prime not prime anymore.

But he didn't move. "You coming?"

Still that peculiar look, but Rodney nodded shortly, stomping over with all the grace of an elephant. "As usual, right behind you. Lead the way, Major."

*****

He doubles-back, leaving Rodney staring resentfully at a wall that should have been a door and isn't, less than thirty feet away. If he'd only known.

Checking his watch, he's impressed to see that Rodney's lasted this long. Sending a silent thank-you to the city, he heads back to parts familiar. McKay will give up eventually and stomp back to his lab and sulk, and God help John next time they see each other, because he'll be *so screwed*.

But that's Atlantis, that's life, and John comes back to see too many people and too many sounds, misses the hum of the city and the quiet of the deserted portions intensely for a few long minutes before he shakes it off, nodding a polite greeting to a woman who smiles as he passes, continuing to his quarters at an easy pace after a quick check-in with security, who assure him solemnly that all the time John was playing hide and seek, not a single disaster.

All in all, a decent day. He thinks his door open jauntily and walks inside, lights flickering on

"Off," says another voice, low and sharp, and John has just enough time to draw his gun before he recognizes that voice, even in perfect dark. It's silly to stand here with a drawn gun pointed in the vague direction of an exhausted scientist, but at least it's familiar.

"Okay, first, how the hell--"

"Oh please." It's just weird, how Rodney can make his *voice* scowl. "Your door is easier than your reputation implies you are."

John rolls his eyes and holsters the gun, thinking hard at the lights. For a second, they fight him, and John finds himself *pushing*, like some unseen force is working against him. Which would be Rodney. John forces a compromise of lowered lights, almost grinning. Rodney, seated on the edge of the bed, looks at him sourly, but that doesn't hide the pleasure. "You've been practicing."

Rodney frowns to cover. "Yeah, well. Have fun? And are we done with the seven year old portion of the day, or did you want to revert to something in diapers?"

John grins. "Annoying, huh?"

"Beyond words to adequately express." Rodney doesn't move, though, frown fading like he forgot what he was mad about. John checks his email briefly--nothing interesting--then turns back in time to catch a peculiar look that he can't interpret.

There's a sudden welling of sympathy for Ancient mystery objects, magical chairs, and alien technology that comes under Rodney's radar, things that he can't quite understand and won't quit until he does. "What?"

"I've always wondered."

John tries not to twitch. Rodney's never looked at him like that. As far back as John can remember, he's never looked at anyone like that. "Wondered what?"

"What would happen if I waited until you stopped running." Rodney stands up. "If you'd come back."

John doesn't think he retreats--where he comes from, it's regroup and assess--but frankly, a rout by any other name is still a rout, and for the first time, he can't organize his mind enough to think to the door, *open, open, open, please*. Or maybe this time, it doesn't believe him, because he's backed up flat against it, and Rodney looks like he just discovered perpetual motion in a bottle.

"Rodney." His voice sounds normal, but he can't think of a sentence to go with it, forgets what he was going to say when Rodney's fingers slide through his, pinning his hand to the cool metal of the door. A rough thumb brushes into his palm, drawing a thick line from knuckle to base, and John shivers at the feeling.

"Tell me," and God, quiet and dark and certain. The habit was set too early, John thinks. This is something that Rodney wants, something John can give, even if it's not easy.

"Like waiting." Like everything's ready. Like I'm ready. John shivers at breath across his lips, a big hand on the back of his neck, tilting his head, the touch of a warm tongue, as close to asking as Rodney can ever come.

Opening his mouth is the only answer John can give.


End file.
